‘And where d’you think you’re going, Sunny Jim?’
‘Let me through, please, Constable. I’m a Member of Parliament and I’ve got a vote to catch.’ Anxiety and lack of time made him sound pompous.
It riled the policeman. The constable inspected the figure clad in luminous yellow helmet and baggy trousers that had appeared before him, then stood his ground. ‘Piss off before I nick you for obstruction.’
‘Don’t be offensive.’
‘Piss off – sir. Will that do you?’
‘Look, I’ve got a vote in the House of Commons in less than ten minutes. Let me pass. I insist!’ Goodfellowe reached out and shook the metal barrier that stood between them.
‘Don’t get violent or I’ll …’
‘Violence? Is that what you want? Because that’s what you’ll get when I report this to Chief Superintendent Ainsworth.’
The mention of his superior’s name gave the constable pause both for thought and for a little anxiety. ‘You really an MP?’ he demanded, sucking a broken front tooth. ‘Where’s your ID then?’
‘My ID?’ Goodfellowe began slapping his pockets in frustration. ‘I’m not carrying it. I rarely carry it.’
‘No ID, only cycle clips? Then they’re not going to let you into the House of Commons, are they?’
‘They all know me there, for God’s sake. Let me through!’
By this time a number of other cyclists, genuine demonstrators, had drawn up to witness the confrontation and to heckle Goodfellowe on, demanding not only that he be let through but that they all be let through. Goodfellowe groaned.
‘Look, Constable … 169OW. You prevent me from getting through and you’ll be in breach of the Sessional Order of the House of Commons. Can’t remember the exact quote, but something about the police ensuring that no obstruction be allowed to hinder the passage of Members to the House on pain of being inflicted with all sorts of cruel and unusual punishments. You’ll not only be on the Chief Super’s doorstep first thing tomorrow but also find your way into the pages of Hansard. Ainsworth’ll boil your balls for his breakfast. The rest of you’ll go for mince. You’ve got …’ – Goodfellowe glanced despairingly at his watch; he wasn’t going to make it – ‘about ten seconds to make up your mind or end up on the back shelf of your old mum’s fridge.’
The constable hesitated. If he let one through the others might follow and he’d have caused a cavalry charge down Whitehall. On the other hand, whoever this man was, he clearly knew Ainsworth and his appetites. God, if only he’d joined the gendarmerie he could have beaten the crap out of them all and no questions asked. The constable tossed the consequences back and forth, weighing his doubts against the merits of his manhood, until eventually he relented. ‘The rest of you get back,’ he shouted at the demonstrators, ‘just this one’s getting through.’
It took more agonizing moments of delay before they complied, the barrier was dragged back, with a muttered apology from the policeman for any misunderstanding, and Goodfellowe was allowed to pass.
As he remounted his bike and began pedalling furiously, he could hear Big Ben striking in the distance, tolling for the bodies to be brought in for counting. Already he was sweating and he’d feel like a dish rag when he arrived. He had only a few more minutes before the doors of the voting lobbies would be locked. He took a huge breath to fill his lungs with oxygen. His legs ached with the effort and suddenly he felt very middle-aged. Time was running out for Goodfellowe, in all sorts of ways. There was still so much he wanted to do, to achieve, but he knew he could do none of it left out in the cold on a bicycle. There was also the matter of Elizabeth. How was he going to hang on to someone as classy as that if all he could offer her was the back of a bloody tandem? As he raced past the Red Lion, he knew that the time had come for him to move on in his life. The bicycle clips had to go.
Goodfellowe cast a despairing, angry look over his shoulder at the confusion he had just left behind. To his surprise he thought he caught sight of Sam, almost buried in the crowd on the other side of the barrier. But no, it couldn’t be. His daughter was in her first year at London University, she’d be busy right now with lectures or essays or something, not out causing mayhem. No, it couldn’t be, wouldn’t be Sam. Anyway, he didn’t have time to stop.
Now he was on the long sprint towards Parliament, putting his back into it, the noise of battle fading. As he pedalled he reflected; how easy it had been for a relatively small number of people armed with nothing more than a little initiative to overwhelm a modern city, to clog the arteries and bring the heart of a great metropolis to the point of seizure. The Cold War military blocs had amassed their arsenals of nuclear-tipped missiles along with chemical and biological agents, weapons that they could launch from land and sea and air and even from space. Vast military machines constructed at huge and often crippling expense. When all they’d needed was a few bicycle pumps.
Goodfellowe chuckled in relief. Thank God the Soviets hadn’t been plugged in to Sky News.
‘Tom!’ A high, almost musical note, a sound of welcome.
Then: ‘Oh, Tom.’ Softer, deeper. About six feet deep. ‘By my mother’s beard, I really don’t know what to do with you. An angel in hobnail boots, if ever I saw one. Never know whether you’re coming into my office to bring me good news or give me a bloody good kicking.’
The Chief Whip waved him onto the single leather sofa and, without prompting, handed him a tumbler of whisky. ‘First you ask to see me. Then miss a bloody vote so I have to have you dragged in here by the cods anyway.’
Eddie Rankin sank wearily into the sofa beside Goodfellowe. The Chief was a Border Scot whose family over generations had seen all sides of the question as armies had tramped their way north and south across his country. His family had fought on all sides, too. Resilience and reticence were woven into the Rankin genes, which made him an ideal Whip. So unlike Battersby.
Goodfellowe had arrived at the House, panting after his dash down Whitehall, his collar askew, his hair like a nesting site for sparrows. He’d missed the vote. Battersby had been waiting for him. Wearing yellow socks. Yellow, for Christ’s sake.
‘Amazing what rubbish floats past if you sit by the river long enough,’ the Whip had weighed in. He was a little drunk, his tongue slow, and he was having trouble with the words, like some badly dubbed film.
‘Damn it, Battersby. I bust a gut trying to get here. Not my fault.’
‘Too busy shagging the waitress, were we? You gotta be careful, Tom, or the News of the Screws is gonna find out about that little arrangement of yours. Fact is, think I can guarantee it.’
‘You should be studied by ornithologists,’ Goodfellowe had countered. ‘As living proof of an old Chinese proverb.’
‘What Chinese proverb?’ the Whip had responded cautiously.
‘That everything which craps on you isn’t necessarily a bird.’
Battersby’s eyes narrowed. He was supposed to be in charge of this, yet somehow Goodfellowe always put him on the defensive. Still, he had one weapon in his locker. Time to produce it. ‘It’s not me you have to worry about, my old deary. The Chief wants to see you. Bit of a command performance, I’m afraid.’
‘Don’t worry. I had already